


The Stars Were Wrong

by cryptidsarereal



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Crack, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Humor, M/M, Painter!Lance, Scientist!Keith, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 09:00:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12767547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidsarereal/pseuds/cryptidsarereal
Summary: Meeting Keith was something like a rude awakening.Not in a philosophical poetic way, no—Lance meant literally getting woken up violently by someone in his balcony, a la Texas Chainsaw Massacre, hacking away at the maple tree that had been hanging over his balcony.Borderline thriller in all its gory.Yes, I spelled that without an ‘L’, catch the fuck up. This is a crack.





	The Stars Were Wrong

 

 

 

Meeting Keith was something like a rude awakening.

 

Not in a philosophical poetic way, no—

 

Lance meant _literally_ getting woken up violently by someone in his balcony, a la Texas Chainsaw Massacre, hacking away at the maple tree that had been hanging over his balcony.

 

Let us set up a clear picture here, Lance lived in a second floor apartment of Altea Suites in a safe, quiet community in downtown Non-Specific-Name-For-Reader’s-Discretion City. Dogs walked around only in a leash, cars honked only when cars were asked to honk. People smiled in semi-placating stiff upper lips. You could literally imagine a musical breaking out of nowhere for how idealistically picturesque the street was.

 

So, if there was anything he expected to surprise him at the break of dawn, excuse the oxymoron, it were to range from a level of: pigeons flying splat on the glass door TO an alien dropping by only to wipe the entire exchange from his mind.

 

Not… this.

 

Not a guy in red plaid flannel and overalls. Chainsaw in hand. Hacking at the branches that had made themselves home to his balcony. Borderline thriller in all its gory. _Yes_ , I spelled that without an ‘L’, catch the fuck up. This is a _crack_.

 

And you know what? He wasn’t ever gonna boo at the stupid characters that die first in every single horror movie because. The. Movies. Were. Accurate. When shit be going down, and scary guys be trippin’ with obviously murderous aura ‘round your house. You be runnin’. You be callin’ someone who can help you. Like the police. Or your emotionally stable best friend.

 

Last thing you wanted to do was callout said Poorly Disguised Leatherface, demand what he be doin’ at your place, at this time of the morning, therefore ultimately provoking potential murderer to pronounce your death sentence, and then finally befall the killing strike.

 

Right?

 

Right? No.

 

“What the hell are you doing with Red?!”

 

Maybe he really had a few screws loose up in his noggin because the moment he spoke, the guy turned around with widened eyes and Lance had a split-second thinking “Cute” before he even finished his sentence.

 

This is it, this should be where he dies.

 

A crow _crowed_ somewhere in the vicinity, emphasising the point and sealing his fate.

 

“Uhm…” Leatherface— no, not Leatherface because he was hot. Prettyface. Goddamn, they didn’t tell him death came with a pretty guy. He would have followed willingly. Jus’ say’n.

 

Prettyface was scowling at him from beneath his mess of a hair. Which was black, fluffy, but shiny, like a dog’s…— right. Still on death row.

 

“The maple tree— the one you’re hacking. That’s Red. That’s my tree. I wanna know what you’re doing with it.”

 

Prettyface looked at him, to all over him, to the tree, to his chainsaw and back at Lance again and simply replied, muffled by the partition, “You’re naked.”

 

Fair point.

 

Lance was, of course, only human and a young soul. So excuse him for spluttering badly and throwing himself all over his bed where he had discarded his robe before going to sleep. Excuse the furious blush on his, well, he’s everything as he stomped back defiantly by his glass doors. He swept the curtains fully then looked at Prettyface with a confident chin up.

 

“Okay, now tell me what you’re doing with my tree.”

 

Prettyface scowled at him from outside. “What?”

 

Lance rolled his eyes, “My maple tree! Why are you in my balcony?”

 

The guy drew closer to the glass, putting his ear by Lance’s mouth. “What?”

 

“Oh fuckin—”, he muttered before violently pushing down the lock and sweeping the door open. “I said—!”

 

Lance took a sharp intake of breath. He hadn’t realised just how close they were standing in front of each other, it hardly even mattered with the door between them but now. Well now he could feel the fog of his exhale on his nose or the way the tip was a shade of pink. He could count the long lashes on his eyelids, the curves of his brows. The little specks of purple in his jet black purple eyes, a mirror look of surprise in them.

 

Man, whoever the hell this guy did he think he was to waltz here and make his presence known to his fragile, fragile heart.

 

_Rood._

 

Okay, wait up. Time out. Backtrack. “What are— You— Why is— the tree hacking— on my balcony—?”

 

System override, RAM built up. Forcing shut down on vocal functions to save the system.

 

Prettyface puffed up a foggy, poorly disguised laugh into the back of his hand as he stepped a step back. One step. Just allowing Lance a teensy space to breathe. “Well um, that was the point, sir, the tree was _hacking_ into your balcony so the owner asked me to cut down the branches.”

 

Lance was never allowing anyone to call him ‘sir’ in _that way_ ever again.

 

“Owner who? I’m the owner of this tree and this balcony.”

 

He raised an amused brow at Lance, looking to the world like he just said the most atrocious things. “Not according to Allura.”

 

‘ _Oh_ ’. Lance mouthed.

 

‘ _Yeah_ ’, the guy mouthed back. “The owner.”

 

The owner, who also happened to be in first name, no honorific, basis. His mind quickly went to do the math. Let’s be honest, this guy was too handsome and little less rough than what he expected of a lumber jack. He stalked in his apartment like he owns the place. This was definitely a favour thing, not a paid service thing. One incredibly hot guy + One incredibly hot girl = One incredibly envying couple.

 

At least, the community gossip was proven true. Allura _was_ settling in with someone.

 

_Settling in…, settling in…_

 

Lance took a couple steps back into his apartment. Attraction for this guy was a nope. Not to mention, secretly mass murderer was still on probation.

 

“Well- well, then- tell her that I need that tree to be there. I need it in the evenings.

 

“Evenings?” The guy huffed to the skies, as if he can’t believe his luck he had to be taking down Lance’s tree of all people. “I don’t think branches just come on and off. What would you even be needing the tree for? It’s unruly, it’s untidy, it might even be dangerous. People could just break in through your balcony by climbing it.”

 

He really, _really_ , really tried not to fix him the deadest and most sarcastic of stares… but he was really calling for it.

 

“…Perfect segue, thus we ever so smoothly come to the question of how you’re even on my balcony.” Lance glanced at the railing. “There isn’t even a ladder. Tell me, chap” More scowling, yeeesh, this guy doesn’t want getting called anything else but his name it seems. Or maybe even so.

 

“When you talk ‘unruly’” Lance glanced at the mess of a head poorly tucked into a bun.

 

“‘Untidy’” Lance tilted his head at the flannel and overalls with leaves and branches sticking out of them.

 

“And dangerous, breaking into my balcony by climbing it.” Lance nodded at the empty railing then back at the bottomless pit of purple black hole eyes. He obnoxiously pushed a finger to his chest. Hot. Damn. This guy worked out. Like hard rock chest work out. “Did you mean yourself?”

 

He slapped Lance’s finger away, whirling around to pad over to the railing. “No. I fucking used a ladder of course. Like a normal person.” Then stopped when he saw there was, in fact, no ladder.

 

And because he was a tiny prick, and his morning was ruined anyway, Lance padded to his side on the balcony, ignoring the chilling air that greeted him. “Why, do my eyes deceive me. Or is that your poor excuse trailing away to the distance?”

 

“I wasn’t making—” he leaned over and peeked below. His eyes widened as he spied something below them. “Shiro, what the fuck—?”

 

Someone. Spied someone. Another hot buff someone. Who happens to be lowering down a purely coincidental, not previously mentioned ladder. He was wearing a grey ‘Scream Queens’ shirt that was too fucking tight on him, he could’ve ripped the sleeves by _flinching_. He also sported this unusually white tuft of hair pushed backwards to his clean cut head, which could either mean he’s the gayest buff he’d ever seen, or his ass is so taken by his girl or boy -friend he can’t even bother looking gay.

 

“Shiro! Put that fucking ladder back asshole!” Pretty face was back to being unattractive again. Shiro only raised a thumbs up in reply and proceeded in folding back the ladder and setting it by the curb.

“Shiro!”

 

“—Okay! I think we’ve woken enough birds this morning, who the fucking hell is Shiro? Why are we yelling this early? And can we please, please settle this shit faster.” Lance visibly shivered under his robe, which was too fucking thin for warmth when you’re fifty-fucking-shades of naked underneath.

 

The guy growled in annoyance. “That’s my asshole brother. Shiro. He’s the one who asked me to cut the tree.”

 

“Oh I see.” Lance didn’t fucking see, but he was just glad things were moving. “Wait— what? I thought the owner said to cut the tree down?”

 

“Uh, yeah.” He put a hand and rubbed at his neck. Cute. Shhh. Stop it, heart. Puberty fucking expired eons ago. “Well, I guess, Shiro and Allura are dating now so, if she wants something done— the little brother gets it.”

 

Info, info, info. Lance sucked up the info like a starving fish. Win number one, he’s single. Single! Win number two… Little brother, awww?

 

“Okay, okay, good, good…” Lance caught something from below. “Uh, why is your brother making a McDonald’s sign?”

 

“Huh?” Hot, SINGLE, guy confusedly peeked over the railing too. Shiro was grinning madly with his two arms forming an M above his head. “Oh- uhm— that’s not—.”

 

Lance glanced back and forth at the brothers’ exchange. Curiosity growing to fascination when splotches of red started from the guy’s neck to his cheeks to his forehead.

 

“That’s not a McDonald’s— that’s a hear— you know what, never mind. I’m just gonna have to go through your door. If you want to keep the tree, you better talk it out with Allura. I’m pretty sure she’d let you keep it.”

 

And without even waiting for confirmation from Lance, he strode purposefully to the sliding doors to his apartment. Lance watched him go, mouth hung open and stupefied by how socially unqualified this guy was. Before realising with a start that said guy was walking into his apartment. His apartment. Which was a jungle. “No, no, no, no, wait—!”

 

“My. God.” His unexpected guest blinked at the thick overgrown of clothes pile and stuffs lying around. His eyes swivelled over from the corner were paint buckets, canvases and newspapers were strewn around, to the other corner that was probably his kitchen. Lance didn’t know, he hadn’t been to that corner for a long, long while.

 

“Sorry for the mess,” the guy eyeballed him like the very understatement of the word ‘mess’ personally offended him. “At least, it’s not as messy as the usual.”

 

“My god.” He said again, which isn’t supposed to be as adorable as it seemed to be.

 

“Look, I’ve been busy!”

 

“My _god_.”

 

“Would you please stop saying that?”

 

“My gosh.” He snarked at Lance with a playful glint in his eyes, before looking around again at the mess. Seemingly at a loss for what he was seeing. Lance threw his hands up in defeat, and turned to his clothes pile. Hurriedly picking up clothes like a good citizen. Unlike someone he knew…

 

“So. Lance.”

 

“What-huh?” He turned around and found his guest standing by an easel, pointing at his signature at the bottom.

 

“Lance. That your name?”

 

“Last I checked…” Lance mumbled dazedly. He didn’t particularly dislike his name, but there’s a certain sharpness to the way you have to say it out loud. Like, you have to bark it out or something. Lance! Try it. See?

 

But— the way he said it— maybe because he had this scratchy quality to his voice . As if he’d been parched, and it was deep too. And his name sounded soft on them, like caramel. Not that he’s totally falling in love with it or anything.

 

Just— you know, it was a weird moment for him. A revelation of sorts.

 

“I’m Keith, just in case you were going to ask. I heard people do it for courtesy?”

 

Lance rolled his eyes at him, and in a voice dripping with sarcasm said, “Oh dear, where are my manners?”

 

“So, Lance.” Keith was starting to get _conversational_ , heavens help us. “I see now why you wanted that tree so badly.”

 

Lance didn’t have to turn around, he knew exactly what was on that canvas. He’d been working at it for days on end, staring at it until the bright reds bled into his eyes. Spent hours winding himself into a ball of frustration, until last night, with a brush thrown haphazardly at the easel, he finally gives it a rest and slept with the night scene and the stars, and the red maple tree burning in his mind’s eye.

 

He was fairly confident about his talent, but he’s not so sure about people looking at his works in progress. So he mindlessly continued picking up the mess around his room, not really having an intention for where to put them nor actually cleaning them up, he just wanted to distract himself from the heat creeping on his ear— surely, there was no need to embarrass himself even further.

 

You’d think he wouldn’t be so self aware, what with Keith seeing his very physical naked self at first sight. You know, like how you’d want to meet your first boner.

 

This is different— he felt _naked_.

 

Maybe Keith sensed his discomfort, because he cleared his throat loudly. “It’s good.”

 

“Good.” He repeated suspiciously.

 

“Yeah, good… although,” Lance resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, there was a ‘but’.

“ _Although_ ,” Keith stressed at him. “The stars are wrong.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

 

“There’s—look,” he gestured at him. “Orion doesn’t show this star—— blah blah.”

Lance had no idea what he just said. “So?”

 

“SO.” Keith breathed deeply, as if regretting even opening up the conversation. “It’s not accurate.”

 

“It’s aesthetic, it’s not supposed to be accurate. You look at it, elicit emotions that probably weren’t even meant to be there. And then you gasp in awe, maybe cry. I don’t know. You don’t—!” for the lack of words, he gestured at whatever Keith thinks he’s doing.

 

“Well, I’m looking at it, and it’s eliciting a feeling of wrongness, like— _the stars were wrong_.”

 

Lance huffed. “This isn’t London, Sherlock.”

 

Keith shrugged helplessly, “I just feel like, you know, if I’m gonna be looking at stars, then I’m gonna want to know a little bit something about them. I won’t be all ‘hey, I think I’m feeling something about those bright light upstairs, oh but wonder! What could they be? Are they shiny diamonds that was placed in the sky? Are they fireflies? I know! _Maybe they’re gaseous spheres that adhere to rules and systems of outer space?_ ”

 

“Christ!” Lance wheezed. “I’m sorry for insulting your planet, geez.”

 

“You’re lucky we’re here on earth, you could’ve been on death penalty, you know.”

 

“What— does you alien government have laws for political correctness?”

 

“Actually, we call it—.”

 

“Pfft, so racial equality isn’t a fad on Mars. What the hell, right?”

 

“I’m not _Martian_ , _geez, ugh_ — just the thought.”

 

“Oh yeah, what antisocial space race are you then?”

 

He turns to Lance. “I’m Galra.”

 

The biting reply he was about to make died in his throat. The way Keith looked at him… it couldn’t be, right? But, his eyes look so sure. So boldly stated.

 

But then, a lilt twitched on the corner of his lips, and Lance exhaled.

 

Fuck, he wasn’t about to die for insulting an alien race, above all else.

 

“Please tell me Galra’s aren’t an actual thing that exists?” Lance asked weakly.

 

“Nah, I made it up.” Keith winked at him. “Or— dunno, maybe it’s a name somewhere. In a cartoon, or whatever.”

 

He’s only realising it now, but they’d been standing beside each other for a while now. With only the painting ironically sitting in audience.

 

“I bet they’re like the aliens in alien movies.” Because alien movies, are alien movies. There’s no need to be specific. “The kind who experiment on humans, I bet they kill other species and shit.”

 

Keith snorted. “I bet they have upper management issues.”

 

‘ _What the fuck’,_ he mouthed at him with an amused shake of his head. Keith just shrugged.

 

Then he looked down to their feet, and then as if remembering that there was supposed to be a space there, he took a step backwards. Lance shifted his things on his arms (oh right, what was I going to do with these?) in disappointment. He was just getting comfortable with the warmth by his side.

 

Dark, deep eyes were staring at him, and Lance realises the ball was in his court. It sat there waiting, not exactly with an urgent pressure… but just a hopeful kind of longing.

 

“UH, so…”, he blurted just as those eyes darted towards the doorway. Which was in his room, somewhere, he’s sure. He wasn’t so sure it’s still intact— hey no judging, we all coop up sometimes. “You, uh, you’re a geek or something?”

 

Keith huffed ‘ _geek or something, he says_ ’ but replied, “Astronomer, actually.”

 

“Yeah. Geek.”

 

“There’s a lot of math, and physics involved you know. Cool stuff. What with space and all.”

 

Lance nodded again. “Geek.”

 

Keith put his hands in the pockets of his overalls, it puffed up his front in a cute way. What, they were flirting now, weren’t they? No use to hold back on the words cute. Leave me the fuck alone people! “If that’s the world you believe in Lance, hell I won’t convince you otherwise.”

 

“So you know zodiacs and shit?”

 

“Christ!” Keith winced. “Your sheer stereotyping is giving me an aneurism. I’m a scientist not a fucking stargazer.”

 

“Science!” Lance wrinkled his nose in disgust. “What _science?_ Just the word— dear god, what insult to my aesthete ears! Equations and formulas, the insolence!”

 

“Art is also science, you know. Wise men say.”

 

“Dunno, it could’ve been ‘science is art’. Not the other way around.”

 

“Art has evolved, you know. Into something science-like.”

 

“Or maybe science has evolved, into something art-like.”

 

“Are we seriously going to argue something that’s believed to be codependent and coexistent for centuries?”

 

“You’re right.” Lance dropped his stuff dramatically on the floor. After just picking them up, Lance likes to keep up his consistency. “Let me just go to my Michelangelo shrine and offer my apologies.”

 

A truck suddenly honked loudly outside, startling them both.

 

Keith stared at his windows unsurely. “That’s… that’s Shiro. I gotta go.”

 

“Oh,” and he really tried to keep disappointment from his voice. Honest!

 

“Well, uh…” Lance looked around and spotted his door. Oh hey, look at that! It’s right there! “That’s my door. You can just— go through it.”

 

Keith raised his eyebrows amusedly.

 

“Because you know, that’s  generally how doors work!” Lance grinned lopsidedly.

 

“I’m aware.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Silence.

 

“Well you know, if you needed someone to teach you your stars, then our room is just below yours.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Go on ahead, this is the part where you bang your head lightly on your laptop, or phones (whatever gadget you’re reading this on). I’ll wait for you to finish that, then we can continue this short story.

 

“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place!” Lance finds himself blurting out with a breathy laugh.

 

“I mean—.” Keith gestured at him, his apartment. “I was waiting for the punchline moment.”

 

Lance opened the door with a wide smile he didn’t even bother to hide. Way past that, folks. “Get the hell out my house, Keith.”

 

“Still not the owner, Lance.”

 

“I pay my rent, I own like— a couple hundred dollars of it.”

 

“My brother is marrying the actual owner, Lance. That immediately puts me somewhere in one-thirds ownership of it.”

 

“Psh. Whatever.” Because he really doesn’t have any reply to how Keith puts his name in every sentence. Psh. Whatever.

 

He was just eagerly closing the door (to— you know, _squeal_ or something drastically similar to whatever cardio his heart is doing right now, howl in delight maybe) when Keith’s voice squeezed through, “And Lance?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“The stars are still wrong.”

 

He shut the door to his face. And just breathed.

 

He looked around the room. From one messy corner to another.

 

His interior was long due for a change.

 

 

 

 


End file.
